


Through and Through

by Janekfan



Series: TMAHC [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Fainting, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner Are Best Friends, Spoilers for episode 143 heart of darkness, TMAHC, TMAHCweek, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Jon gets in the way of Basira's bullet in Norway.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Series: TMAHC [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894246
Comments: 18
Kudos: 192





	Through and Through

“No, I,” Jon inhaled, shaky, “I think it’s here. I, I. I can feel it, like a. Hole in my mind.” Basira looked skeptical and Jon couldn’t blame her. Who would just leave something like the Dark Star unattended and alone? What were they missing?

“They just left it here.” 

“I. Maybe.” He chuffed, running a hand through his prematurely greying hair. “Kinda wish Daisy was here.” The silence was heavy, oppressive, but the steps ceased. “Basira?” He could picture her eyes, shrewd in the dim. Watching. 

“Yeah?” She began again. 

“Sorry.” He breathed in again, deep and unsteady. “I know this isn’t--behind you!”

“Down!” She spun around, firing at the shadowy figure now standing between them, and numerous things happened at once. The muzzle flash momentarily blinded him and an incandescent burst of white hot agony lit up his side like a Christmas tree. There was a grunt of pain, his, Jon thought, a second, echoed by someone else and the glass bulb in one torch shattered, throwing them into even more darkness. He gripped his side reflexively where it hurt most and his hand came away bloody. 

He’d been hit. 

Likely by Basira which meant she was going to be very cross with him for failing to heed her instructions quick enough. 

“Don’t move!” For a confused second, he thought she was shouting at him and he very gladly wished to follow that advice considering it hurt to even breathe, but he then realized it was for whoever was writhing on the floor, spitting at them. 

“Oh, charming.” He murmured, still feeling around in the dark at his waist. The bullet seemed to have passed through him completely, hitting only the fleshiest part of him, but the blood was hot and thick and copious on his skin, soaking down his pant leg and spreading the burning sensation further, as if it was following its path. He pressed harder, balling up the hem of his jumper in an attempt to stem the hemorrhaging just enough to get through the compelling of another human being by force, the subsequent statement, the destruction of the Sun and really it was _beautiful,_ such that he almost didn’t want to destroy it, and afterwards he felt entirely drained, like the power had been siphoned right out of him and into that deep and infinite void. 

Without the adrenaline of the last few minutes, the bullet wound in his side was screaming for attention, the material clenched in his hand now sodden and heavy. Shouldn’t it be slowing by now? He was so focused on tamping down the miserable agony that Helen’s sudden appearance made him yelp. It was terrifying to say the least, that she was now offering them a way home when she’d trapped Manuela in her tunnels mere moments ago. 

“Go find your Basira. Then let’s get you both home.” Home. That would be a relief. Trust Basira to key in on the glistening sheet painting nigh half of him, illuminating the frankly alarming amount of red. 

“What happened?” To her credit, she sounded horrified, and Jon’s legs, with his impeccably perfect timing, chose that moment to fold like a house of cards. “Jon!” 

“‘M. M’okay.” 

“You’re bleeding, Archivist.” 

“Thank you, Helen.” Through grit teeth, and the warmth was seeping out of his body and pooling at the back of him, underneath, exchanging places with the freezing cold stone beneath him. “I don’t. Uh. Think I, I.” 

“You can still _hurt_ , idiot.” And _oh,_ it hurt. It did, it really did. “Hold still.” She lifted the layers and somehow the pain crescendoed to a new height and he writhed under her clinical touch, biting his tongue so he didn’t scream. “Hold still!” 

“You don’t have to, to _hit_ me, Basira.”

“You’re holding still now, Archivist.” Her face, there and not, shifting and still, appeared above him and made him so dizzy, he had to close his eyes against it. 

“Thank you. H’Helen.” The sound of cloth tearing rang in his ears and he spasmed when Basira’s fingers packed the matching set of holes with it before heaving him forward and tying off a bandage around his waist. The dark swirled around him, making him nauseous, while a yellow door appeared in the corner of his see sawing vision. 

“You’re going to need stitches.” 

“C’can. Can you…” He bit off a pained groan, unable to finish the sentence he was attempting, when Basira lifted him back to his feet. 

“Are you asking me to sew you up back at the Institute?” Kindly, Helen held the door open for them as they staggered through, amusement gleaming in her spiraling stare. At least one of them was having a good time. 

“Y’yes?” He was pretty sure he couldn’t die from this. Maybe. But he did feel incredibly terrible.

“Ridiculous.” Basira muttered, absently thanking the Distortion for granting them safe passage through her numerous twisting corridors. They didn’t have to turn back to know her door was gone, nor did they have time to because Jon was already collapsing into a chair, all feeling gone from his legs, bitterly cold and trembling like the snow of Norway followed him all the way here.

“Basira? Jon?” Daisy limped around the corner, supporting herself on the wall, “I smelled blood--what happened?” She was checking his vitals, hands almost burning against his skin, the distance having been crossed in the span of one slow blink. 

“Through and through.” 

“D’Daisy.” 

“Jon?” With him and Basira still on rocky terms, her concern, her careful touch, was a welcome thing. “I’m calling 999.” 

“No, no, I. I’m.” His tongue sluggish, a beat or more behind what he was thinking. 

“If you say you’re fine--Yes. We need an ambulance.” She rattled off the address and let the call drop. “I will make personally sure you aren’t.” Throwing his arm over her shoulder, she motioned to Basira to do the same, levering him up slowly out of the chair. He felt the blood drain from his face, clinging to consciousness with his fingernails. Maybe. Maybe Daisy was right?

He came awake in the back of the ambulance, not remembering when he’d closed his eyes, and felt someone squeeze his cold, cold fingers. Everything was closed off, the doors in his mind slammed shut and barred closed, numb, his connection to the Eye muddy and sluggish and his inability to Know so suddenly was frightening despite hating all it meant. 

“Relax.” There was something on his face but his limbs were weighted down with rocks and he couldn’t move for the straps over his chest and legs. “Jon, look here.” Another hand, this time on his cheek and though his vision kept slipping in and out, he could recognize Daisy’s face, made sharp and angular from six months in the Choke. “You’re confused because you’ve lost a lot of blood, but I’m here.” A noise made him jump but she held him fast. “Just look at me. You’re alright.” He was tired. Daisy was here. He was safe. 

“Whaz…” he didn’t know what was happening and words weren’t cooperating, even though he was sure Daisy had just explained it. Would she be angry that he couldn’t remember? It was so _cold_ why was he so cold? 

“Hush. Gonna get you fixed right up, Jon.” When their hands were separated he made a noise between a moan and a sob, the bit of warmth and connection torn away from him and he couldn’t remember, couldn’t remember what was happening. What was happening? He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t see.

Hear.

Think. 

Could just ache. 

“Said it was almost like a coma.” Voices. Quiet and familiar.

“So he wouldn’t have _died_ , died then.” Who wouldn’t have?

“Shh. He’s coming ‘round.” His eyes were open but the room was dimly lit and he couldn’t make out who was there with him. “Jon?” 

“D’Daisy?” Terrible. He sounded terrible and was so grateful for the ice chips she offered him to soothe his dry throat. The Eye cheerfully informed him that he’d had something of a “close one” and he believed it. He felt weak and slow, mind sluggish to parce new information and it kept getting snagged on Martin. 

Where was Martin? 

He missed Martin. 

Was Martin safe? 

“Jon?” Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, he glanced at the wires and lines with their dripping bags of fluids and drugs before lifting his eyes to Daisy’s face. “You alright? Faded out for a minute there.” He wished he could fade out again because now that he was becoming more aware, the throbbing in his side was demanding his attention loudly and painfully. “Does it hurt?” 

“Mmf.” Exasperation he might also classify as fond, crossed her features. She pressed a button into his hand, depressing his thumb for him, flooding his arm with a strange sensation and he pushed the chemical formula for morphine out of the way. 

“Better?” Nodding, he began to feel disconnected and somewhat distant, as though the drugs were numbing everything and he was okay with that. It would be nice to rest for just a moment. Maybe he would even stay out of their dreams. That would be nice too. 

“Never…” Jon could barely control his mouth. “Been shot before…” A lot of other things, but never anything so mundane as a bullet. It took a lot to hold back the sudden and powerful urge to start giggling. 

“Let’s not make it a habit.” Basira’s blurry shape appeared over Daisy’s shoulder, arms folded and expression tight. “You need to listen to me on these _excursions_.” Jon could hear the guilt threading its way through each word. She hadn’t meant to shoot him, of course she hadn’t. He should have been quicker, he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. “This is all hard enough as it is without you getting in the way of my bullets.” 

“Mhm.” There was a glow to everything now, as though haloed in bright white light and his lashes were painted with lead, each blink revealing a brand new still slide, like the hospital room was some bizarre mockery of a home movie. The pain was there in an abstract sort of way but the exhaustion was winning out, the Beholding drawing on what he had left in an attempt to speed up the healing of his injuries. 

He’d have to ask Basira for a statement when he got back.


End file.
